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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654589">Find What You Love &amp; Let It Kill You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruoch/pseuds/Gruoch'>Gruoch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Family Drama, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Peter Parker’s pink parka of justice, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Tony Stark, canon is dead, fake politics as plot device, in his own unique Tony Stark way, let Steve Rogers wrestle with doubts like a 3D character 2021, lonely old man befriends plucky latchkey kid, parenting post contentious divorce, questionable mentoring tactics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:54:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,432</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruoch/pseuds/Gruoch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve meets Spider-Man again almost by accident.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker &amp; Steve Rogers, Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark, Steve Rogers &amp; Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Faves and must-reads, Irondad_and_Spideyson, god tier peter parker fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This feels years late to the party but I'm cleaning some old unfinished WIPs out of my files as part of my NY's resolutions, and I'm forever annoyed that Steve never really interacted with Peter in the MCU, so here you go &lt;3&lt;3&lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natasha returns in the middle of April. </p><p>She had disappeared about three weeks prior, leaving behind only a burner phone with a single pre-programmed number in it. It wasn’t the first time she had vanished like that, and they continued on without her, knowing that eventually she would come back to them. Like always. Still, it’s a tense, uneasy three weeks. Steve misses the hard curve of her body pressed against his back when he lies in bed at night in yet another frigid, damp safehouse room, misses her sly asides and sardonic smiles, the soft, reassuring press of her fingers against his palm.</p><p>Then one night they come back from a mission, and she’s waiting for them with the news that they can go home.</p><p>“There are stipulations,” Natasha says. “It’s all or nothing. That’s their bargaining chip.”</p><p>“We should go, then,” Wanda says, her weary face troubled. “For Clint’s sake, and his family.”</p><p>“The Accords don’t go away either,” Natasha warns. “But they are willing to negotiate amendments. Give us some more control. Play our cards right and we could just about neuter them. Tony would back us.”</p><p>“How can you be sure?” Sam asks.</p><p>Natasha’s face is inscrutable, calm. “He will. Whatever happened—” her eyes flick briefly over to Steve—“getting the team back together is more important.”</p><p>“What do you think, boss?” Sam asks, looking at Steve.</p><p>Steve looks back at them, at their tired pale faces and wary eyes. </p><p>
  <i>You’ve always believed it’s better to fight than run, even when you know you can’t win.</i>
</p><p>“We go home,” he says.</p><p>***</p><p>Steve meets Spider-Man again almost by accident.</p><p>They’ve been back a month, long enough to settle a bit but not to shake that slightly feral edge they picked up during their months of exile. Steve doubts he will ever be able to quit the habit of constantly looking over his shoulder and scanning the crowded streets. He wonders if this is how Bucky felt, like a wounded animal that knew it was being hunted, hackles raised and teeth always half-bared. </p><p>Steve can’t sleep at night in the little Brooklyn apartment he’s moved into unless there is absolute silence so that he can listen for footsteps, phantom enemies lurking in the hallways and stairwells of the apartment building. He lies awake sweating in his bed, the noisy window AC unit shut off despite the stuffy heat, his skin crawling and his guts churning until he finally gets up and spends the remaining hours of the night running laps through mostly empty streets dimly illuminated a dirty, sickly yellow by the streetlights. </p><p>He tries not to think of Bucky in that far away place, held in suspended animation. He can’t remember any of his own time spent like a mackerel on ice in the market, but he also can’t imagine what kind of nightmare your existence would have to be to willingly go back to that state. Even now, when he feels like his whole world is off-kilter and his sanity is pouring out of his head, he can’t imagine it.</p><p>“You look like shit,” Natasha says to him one afternoon in his apartment, her fingers tugging at his unruly beard. “I’m worried about you. You didn’t look this bad even when we were slumming it in Chechnya.”</p><p>“I don’t sleep,” he admits. “I don’t—it’s the waiting. I feel like I should be doing something. I feel like...like something’s gonna fall apart.”</p><p>“You could come with me to the negotiations,” Natasha suggests. “You should have a say in what’s going on. You might feel better if you feel like you have some control.”</p><p>Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s better if I stay away. I would just...complicate things.”</p><p><i>I’m a coward,</i> he doesn’t say aloud. He hasn’t told Natasha what happened in Siberia, but he suspects she’s pieced enough of it together. She always knows more than she lets on. In her world there is nothing secret or sacred save for her own mysteries.</p><p>“Let’s go out, then,” Natasha suggests. “You need to get out. I know a great little sandwich place.” She cocks her head and strokes his furred cheeks, her hands so gentle for someone who is so very dangerous. “What do ya say, fella?”</p><p>They take a train into Queens and walk a few blocks in the stifling late afternoon heat, sticky with humidity, until they find one of those little corner deli-groceries that Steve didn’t even realize he missed so terribly until he lays eyes on it. </p><p>“Here we go,” Natasha says, a sly smile curving her mouth. </p><p>Steve follows her into the deli. The odd hour means it’s mostly empty inside, and they line up behind a kid with wavy brown hair who bounces restlessly on the balls of his feet as he waits for someone to come to the counter to take his order. </p><p>Without any warning, Natasha steps up close behind the kid and pulls her phone out, and then she runs her fingers down the back of his neck. </p><p>The kid whips around, his expression mirroring the startled confusion Steve is feeling. He looks from Natasha to Steve, his face going bright red and his mouth dropping open. </p><p>Natasha lifts her phone.</p><p>“Hey, Petey. Give us a big smile,” she says, snapping a photo of the kid gaping in shock before he makes a run for it, ducking past Steve as he flees for the door. Steve watches his retreating back, and then turns to Natasha.</p><p>“What the hell was that about?” he asks.</p><p>“That,” Natasha says, typing away on her phone, “is leverage.”</p><p>“Leverage?”</p><p>“Mm. I don’t like Tony thinking we owe him anything while we’re hashing out amendments and revisions. We’re not exactly in a great position to demand anything. This is just a little push to help Tony get over his ego and whatever hurt feelings you big bad boys like to stubbornly cling to. His opinion will hold more weight with Ross and the U.N.”</p><p>“And why does Tony care about some kid in a deli in Queens?” Steve asks, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth something clicks into place. He looks at Natasha for confirmation, because that cannot be…</p><p>Natasha smiles her mysterious, knowing smile. </p><p>“He’s a kid,” Steve says. </p><p>“Peter Benjamin Parker, sophomore at Midtown School of Science and Technology. Lives with his aunt here in Queens. I can give you his address if you’re interested,” Natasha says, sounding almost bored and still typing away on her phone. </p><p>Steve doesn’t bother asking how she knows all of this. </p><p>“Tony brought a high school student to Germany,” he says flatly.</p><p>Natasha shrugs. “We were a little desperate. And he did a good job, you have to admit, enough for Tony to take an ongoing interest in him. I can remember him getting a few good hits in on you.” </p><p>She starts to slide her phone back into her pocket, only for it to start buzzing incessantly. She glances at it, a grim little smirk on her face. She steps up to the counter and motions for Steve to follow. “Better decide what you want to eat quick, big guy, before mama bear decides to crash the party.” </p><p>“So is this why you brought me here,” Steve asks unhappily, after they’ve gotten their lunches and found a bench at a park to sit down and eat at. “To use a kid as leverage against Tony?”</p><p>Natasha’s face has a frightening ability to remain completely neutral. It’s like trying to look through a two-foot thick sheet of ice at something on the other side. “I brought you here because Delmar’s has the best sandwiches in Queens. If Mr. Parker happens to also enjoy the sandwiches here most days after school, then that is a happy coincidence.”</p><p>“Coincidence. Right.” Steve rubs a hand over his beard, feeling bone-deep weariness. “For the record, I don’t like this. When we came home, I thought…”</p><p>He stops, sighing. He wasn’t foolish or naive enough to think that everything would magically go back to the way it was before, but he had hoped, at the very least, that they could attempt to mend the painful wounds that still festered between them. This feels like a step back, another betrayal. He wonders how they can ever hope to be a team again if they can never trust each other.</p><p>Natasha pats his arm, her expression sympathetic. “I know, Steve. I’m just trying to protect us.”</p><p>“<i>All</i> of us,” she adds pointedly.</p><p><i>He’s safe,</i> Steve reminds himself. <i>Bucky’s safe.</i> He fills his mind with a distant place, a place with high mountain peaks and emerald green fields and cities of unimaginable wonders. The cool, sterile white lights of a laboratory. The assurances of success, spoken with so much confidence. A worn, resigned smile, different and yet so familiar he could draw it from memory. </p><p>“They don’t even know where he is,” Steve says.</p><p>“No,” Natasha says. “And maybe they never will. But if they do—”</p><p>“There’s evidence proving he had nothing to do with the bombing in Vienna.”</p><p>“And there’s evidence linking him to a slew of high-profile assassinations,” Natasha shoots back.</p><p>Steve’s hands twitch and close involuntarily into fists. “That wasn’t—that wasn’t him.”</p><p>“It’s complicated,” Natasha says, almost gently.</p><p>“Even if…there’s no extradition treaty with Wakanda. And T’Challa wouldn’t agree to it.” Steve says it firmly, with conviction, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t have doubts.</p><p>“T’Challa is a good man,” Natasha agrees. “He wants to right an injustice. But he’s also a ruler of a country—a country that he has just pushed onto the world stage in a massive way. His duty is to Wakanda first. Justice isn’t a black and white issue once politics and diplomacy get involved.”</p><p>She reaches over and slips her hand into Steve’s, squeezing it. “It was never going to be easy. Nothing is ever easy. Not for us.”</p><p>Steve looks at her and nods once, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line.</p><p>***</p><p>The next time Steve runs into Spider-Man, it really is an accident.</p><p>He’s back at the deli in Queens three weeks later, because Nat was right about the sandwiches. Steve had grown up dirt poor and knew what it was to crave something so badly you could feel it in your bones, and when he was a scrawny, sickly kid just barely scraping by, good food had often been the thing he craved the most. It feels almost like a sinful indulgence now to get that kind of craving for something and just get up and sate it, like it was nothing at all. That had been one of the most startling things about waking up in the present—the immediacy and abundance of everything, equal parts amazing and overwhelming. It had taken him some time to get used to, like just about everything else.</p><p>So he didn’t think anything of it when he waltzed into Delmar’s with an ungodly hunger for pastrami on rye. He orders two so he can have one later for dinner and avoid turning on the oven or stove in his hot, cramped apartment. He opens the door to leave and almost runs right into someone standing below his line of sight.</p><p>“Whoa, my apol—“ he starts, but the words die on his tongue as he gets a look at the person he’s nearly mowed down. The kid—Spider-Man, a still incredulous part of Steve’s brain supplies—stumbles backwards, his hands raised defensively like he half expects Steve to deck him.</p><p>“Hey, kid, take it easy,” Steve says, holding his own hands up in what he hopes is a placating gesture. </p><p>“Are—are you following me?” the kid splutters. He looks around, wild-eyed. “Is Black Widow gonna jump out and snap my neck or something? Because listen, I’m really, really sorry about stealing your shield in Germany and everything, and honestly I had no idea what I was doing—”</p><p>“Kid,” Steve says, trying to interrupt the rapid stream of words pouring out of the kid’s mouth.</p><p>“—and I was just following Mr. Stark’s orders, and he’s, you know, <i>Iron Man</i> so how do you say no to <i>that,</i> but seriously I’m so sorry, Captain Rogers, sir, please don’t punch me again because my aunt will freak out if I tell her Captain America punched me <i>twice—</i>”</p><p>“Kid,” Steve says again, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He holds up the bag with the sandwiches. “I’m not gonna punch you. I’m just here to get a bite to eat. I had a hankering for Delmar’s pastrami. That’s all.”</p><p>“Oh,” the kid says, some of the tension easing from his shoulders, although he is still eyeing Steve with a bit of trepidation. “Yeah, they do good pastrami.” </p><p>He pauses a moment, and then squints up at Steve. “Is it weird that I think it’s weird that Captain America eats pastrami sandwiches? I thought you’d just eat like, ten pounds of steak a day or something.”</p><p>Steve’s smile widens. “I grew up in Brooklyn. Of course I eat pastrami.” </p><p>He looks at the bag in his hand and then back at the kid. “Care to join me? I got two.”</p><p>“Oh,” the kid says again, his cheeks going pink and his eyes lighting up. “I—with you? Yeah, definitely, that would be...that would be <i>awesome.</i>”</p><p>Steve leads him back to the little neighborhood park where he and Natasha had eaten before and finds another bench. The kid’s still a little nervous, Steve can tell. He rambles about everything while they eat and asks Steve an endless stream of questions, then apologizes for rambling and asking so many questions, and then goes right back to rambling and asking questions once more.</p><p>Steve finds himself smiling a little helplessly. So much of the past year has been spent in tense silences and cautious, murmured conversations in dark motel rooms and abandoned warehouses. It’s refreshing to sit here in the park, despite the truly god-awful heat, and just talk about nothing and everything. The kid is almost startlingly ordinary, and looking at his smooth baby face and worn sneakers, Steve has a hard time reconciling the fact that this is the same person who gave him and Sam and Buck a fair licking in Germany.</p><p>“I should probably go,” the kid says reluctantly some time later. “My aunt has the night off so she’ll expect me home for dinner.”</p><p>“Well. Hope that sandwich didn’t ruin your appetite, then,” Steve says, crumpling up the empty paper bag and tossing it into a nearby trash can.</p><p>“Nah, I can always eat. Fast metabolism or whatever,” the kid says, hopping off the table where he had perched. He shoves his hands under his armpits and ducks his head, looking shy now. “Thanks for the sandwich, sir.”</p><p>“Sure thing, Queens,” Steve says with a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”</p><p>He’s not sure why he says that. Natasha has already poked at the hornet’s nest, and Steve has no intention of stirring up any more trouble with Tony. But he still likes the way the kid’s whole face lights up at the possibility. It makes him wonder how much Tony has told him. He takes it as a hopeful sign that this kid can still look at him like he’s a man worthy of trust. </p><p>Maybe he still is that man, maybe...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So?” Steve asks.</p>
<p>“The wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly,” Natasha says, running her fingers through her hair, freshly dyed back to a brilliant red. She's just returned from another meeting over the Accords. Looking at her, in her neat silk blouse and black skirt, Steve feels a little envious of the way she can slip so easily back into life here while he still feels adrift in a kind of purgatory.</p>
<p>He lets his head hang down loose on his neck, exhaling slowly.</p>
<p>Natasha comes to sit beside him on the sofa, rubbing his shoulders. “I know. It’s tough for guys like you to wait like this.”</p>
<p>He folds his hands over his face and sighs again. “No. No—I was in the military, I know how this works. Ninety-percent of our day was spent sitting with our thumbs up our asses, even in the middle of a war. No, it’s…”</p>
<p>He trails off, uncertain of how to explain how he’s feeling to her—like he’s a ghost haunting his own house.</p>
<p>“You need to keep yourself busy,” Natasha says. “Distract yourself. You’re too inside your own head. Get a hobby or something.”</p>
<p>Steve gives her a tight little smile. “A hobby?” he says dryly. “ Like what?”</p>
<p>Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re an artist, right? Take up drawing again. Learn a new language. Teach cute little orphan boys how to throw a proper punch before they break their wrist on someone’s jaw.”</p>
<p>Steve lifts his head to look at Natasha. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that she knows he saw the kid again.</p>
<p>“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.</p>
<p>“I’m just teasing, but I suppose it depends on your motives,” Natasha says, coiling a coppery strand of hair around her finger. </p>
<p>“I don’t have any,” Steve says honestly. </p>
<p>“No one does anything without a reason,” Natasha replies, getting to her feet and walking towards the door. “I’ll bring you a sketchbook next time I come."</p>
<p>She looks back at him, her hand on the door knob, her expression softer. “You know, I wouldn’t trust you the way I do if you didn’t have doubts.”</p>
<p>Steve shakes his head, letting out a little huff of humorless laughter. There’s an ache in his chest. </p>
<p>“And what about you?” he asks her, feeling almost scared to hear the answer. “Do you ever have doubts?”</p>
<p>Natasha considers for a long moment. </p>
<p>“I have regrets,” she says finally.</p>
<p>“That’s not really the same thing, is it?” Steve says grimly. He knows he shouldn’t find the answer disappointing, but he does anyway.</p>
<p>Natasha gives him a brittle smile as she opens the door and steps across the threshold. “No. But in my line of work doubts get you killed. It’s a luxury I can’t afford.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The weeks trickle into months, and the only thing that seems to change is the weather.</p>
<p>Steve runs down mostly empty streets, past mounds of dirty gray snow piled up around parked cars, trying to think of nothing but the feel of cold concrete through the paper-thin soles of his shoes, the treads worn down to nothing. The oily shadows deepen minutely as the hours pass, their edges sharpening as he loops by them again and again. He stops a moment to tie his shoe somewhere around his hundredth lap, his breath pouring out in steamy white clouds, when a voice from above startles him.</p>
<p>“Do you always run at night?”</p>
<p>He pushes himself up into a ready stance in an instant, looking overhead. Spider-Man hangs upside down from the street lamp above him, the white lenses of his mask narrowed in the bright stream of light. </p>
<p>“What? You spying on me now?” Steve asks, relaxing. “Payback for Natasha’s photo?”</p>
<p>“If I was spying on you, it would be pretty dumb of me to blow my cover and talk to you,” the kid replies. He’s wearing, strangely, what looks like a little girl’s bubblegum pink, fur-trimmed parka over his suit, and Steve thinks he must be losing his touch a little not to have noticed what is basically a garishly colored neon sign hanging directly over his head.</p>
<p>“Fair enough,” Steve says. “If you’re not spying on me, what are you doing in Brooklyn? I thought your beat was over in Queens.”</p>
<p>The kid gives an upside-down shrug. “I’ve been expanding my scope. Sometimes I like a change of pace, so I swing over here. Midtown’s the best, though.”</p>
<p>“Why’s that?”</p>
<p>“All those high-rises. You ever free-fall off a skyscraper?”</p>
<p>“I’ve jumped out of planes,” Steve offers.</p>
<p>“Well, then you know why. Nothing like a little shot of adrenaline. Can you believe I used to be scared of heights?” The kid pauses, cocking his head. “Maybe don’t tell Mr. Stark about the whole jumping off skyscrapers thing, alright?”</p>
<p>Steve grimaces. “I wouldn’t worry about that, kid. Tony and I...we’re not really on speaking terms.” </p>
<p>“But, maybe you <i>will</i> be,” the kid says. “Soon. Isn’t that why you came back?”</p>
<p>“It’s...complicated,” Steve says, echoing Natasha. </p>
<p>“Oh—complicated,” the kid replies dryly, dangling precariously from one foot now. “I’ve heard that one a lot. That’s what adults tell kids when they think they’re too stupid and immature to understand something.”</p>
<p>“Well. Maybe we like to think we’re protecting you,” Steve says. <i>Protecting ourselves,</i> voice in the back of his mind corrects.</p>
<p>“Sure,” the kid says dubiously. “Because hiding important information always turns out so well.”</p>
<p>Steve almost flinches. He peers up at the kid, wondering again how much Tony has told him. <i>What</i> he told him. He feels a sudden urge to ask, to explain himself.</p>
<p>“That’s a nice coat, by the way,” he says instead. “Looks warm.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” the kid says without offering any further explanation about it, pulling the fur-lined hood over his head and somehow managing to look coquettish even while dangling upside down with his face hidden by the mask.</p>
<p>“You ever get dizzy hanging upside down like that?” Steve asks.</p>
<p>“Nope,” the kid replies. “You ever get tired running all those laps?”</p>
<p>“Not as much as I wish I did,” Steve says regretfully.</p>
<p>The kid twists around and sits on the arch of the street lamp’s arm. “What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”</p>
<p>“Something like that,” Steve murmurs.</p>
<p>“That sucks.” The kid pulls back the sleeve of the parka to fiddle with a device on his wrist. “You wanna get a churro?”</p>
<p>“A what?”</p>
<p>“A <i>churro</i>.”</p>
<p>Steve smiles up at him, giving a helpless shrug.</p>
<p>The kid looks back down at him, the lenses of his mask going wide. “You’ve <i>seriously</i> never had a churro?”</p>
<p>Steve shrugs again. “Not that I can recall.”</p>
<p>The kid rears back and presses his hands to his head. “Oh my <i>god</i>, I’m losing my mind right now, that’s just...wow, okay. <i>Sad.</i> It’s fried—kind of like a donut, I guess? Anyway, there’s a place like a block from here that gives them to me for free ‘cause I stopped a guy trying to mug the owner’s sister. It’s open till like three on weekends for the bar crowd. You wanna try it? Pay back for the pastrami?”</p>
<p>Steve looks down at his running shoes briefly. He thinks of the shadows lining the streets and the stifling silence of his apartment, the doubts multiplying there in the quiet, waiting for his return. He looks back up at the kid. “Yeah. Yeah, I could go for a churro. Why not?”</p>
<p>He lets the kid take him to a rough little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The space is about the same size as Steve’s tiny apartment and it’s packed tight with shiny-faced, bleary-eyed customers who reek of sweat and booze. Steve feels an uncomfortable prickle at the base of his skull, a fugitive’s response to being in an enclosed, crowded space, but everyone is too busy gawping at Spider-Man in his pink parka to take any notice of Steve. </p>
<p>One of the heavily tattooed guys behind the counter greets them with a booming “Hey, hey! Spidey! Que onda, chavo?” and motions them to the front of the line.</p>
<p>“Who’s your big scary friend?” the man behind the counter asks Peter, nodding towards Steve.</p>
<p>“Captain America,” the kid replies.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s funny—Captain Gringo eating a churro. You’re a real funny kid,” the guy replies, handing over a greasy paper bag. “What’s with the coat? Your little sister let you borrow that?”</p>
<p>“Nah, your mom did,” the kid says. “Something to remember her by after our night together.”</p>
<p>The man lets out a rip of laughter, flashing a good-natured middle finger. “Hey, you know what? You make it work, kid. Come to Brooklyn more often, alright? You’re good for business. Every time you show up here at this shit-hole I get triple the customers the next day. Take care of yourself out there.”</p>
<p>“You’re parents don’t worry about you being out this late?” Steve asks as they squeeze back out the door into the bitter cold, remembering belatedly that Natasha had said the kid lived with his aunt.</p>
<p>“They’re dead, so no,” Peter says bluntly around a mouthful of churro. “I live with my aunt. She works a lot, like all the time—lotta nights and weekends and stuff. So.” He pauses a moment, swallowing, and when he continues there’s a hint of guilt in his voice. “I mean, I have a curfew, but sometimes I’ll be home trying to watch TV or doing homework or whatever and all I can think about is how maybe someone is out there getting hurt, or maybe dying even, and it’s just like—<i>killing</i> me, you know?” </p>
<p>“Sure, I know,” Steve says. He nudges the kid with his elbow. “What about eating churros with an ex-fugitive of the law? That doesn’t bother you?”</p>
<p>“Mm, I consider keeping lonely elderly veterans company an act of charitable service,” the kid says cheekily. “I’m a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, after all.”</p>
<p>“Elderly. Very funny,” Steve says with a wry smile. “Never heard that joke before.” </p>
<p>He cast a sidelong look at the kid. “And what makes you think I’m lonely?”</p>
<p>The kid shrugs, cramming another churro into his mouth. “Dunno. Just a vibe I get. Nothing wrong with that. Lots of people are lonely.”</p>
<p>Something about the way he says it makes Steve looks over at him again, studying him in the artificial light beaming down from the street lights.</p>
<p> “How many people know about the Spider-Man thing?” he asks.</p>
<p>The question seems to take the kid aback for a moment. “Uh, just a friend of mine and my aunt. They were accidents. Mr. Stark, of course. Black Widow, which is kinda scary. And you, now.”</p>
<p>“And how old are you?”</p>
<p>“Sixteen,” the kid answers a little defensively, like he expects to be lectured.</p>
<p>“Well,” Steve says. “I think you got a lotta guts, kid.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Thanks,” Peter says, sounding surprised and pleased, his posture relaxing.</p>
<p>“Sure. I mean it.” Steve rubs his hands together to brush off the sugar sticking to his fingertips. “So. You gonna tell me what’s the real deal with the coat?”</p>
<p>The kid holds his arms out, looking down at himself. “I’m being punished. The suit has a heater in it, but I wrecked the whole system hardcore last week when—well, it’s a long story, but I was, according to Mr. Stark, being a <i>reckless dumbass.</i> And then we got into a big fight about it, and that pissed him off even more. So he’s making me wear this coat whenever I go out in an attempt to publicly shame me into compliance or something, and he’s refusing to fix the heater until I learn my lesson or whatever. Said that if I was gonna act like a clown, I can look like one, too. Jokes on him, though, ‘cause I’m not bothered by that toxic masculinity BS, <i>and</i> I’ve been wracking up compliments left and right in this coat. My self-confidence is through the roof right now. I can keep this up the rest of winter if I have to.” </p>
<p>Steve can’t help but smile. “Yeah, that sounds like a punishment Tony would mete out. He’s just trying to look out for you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I know,” the kid sighs, folding his arms across his chest and scuffing a foot along the cracked concrete of the sidewalk. </p>
<p>“You should just call him,” he says suddenly.</p>
<p>“Call Tony?”.</p>
<p>“Yeah. He’d answer. He wants you to call him, I think.”</p>
<p>Steve shifts his weight. “What makes you say that?”</p>
<p>“Cause he kept all your stuff,” the kid says. “I’ve seen it at the facility upstate. Why would he keep it if he didn’t think you’d come back? He coulda just dumped it or stuck it in storage somewhere, but he didn’t.”</p>
<p>Something twists painfully in Steve’s gut. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>Steve releases a slow breath and scrubs a hand over his beard. He squints down at the kid. “I’ll think about it, how ‘bout that?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tony’s dead drunk the first time they talk over the phone. Steve knows this because Tony tells him as much straightaway, as if being inebriated somehow puts some distance between himself and the fact that he’s accepted the call—or perhaps, Steve wonders, as way for Tony to wash his hands of any blame if their conversation goes sideways. </p>
<p>Which it almost immediately does.</p>
<p>“Your kid told me I should call you,” Steve tells him, which is maybe his own way of deflecting responsibility, if he’s honest with himself.</p>
<p>“My kid? <i>My</i> kid?” Tony replies with exaggerated confusion and indignation. “You mean that giant little pain in my ass running around Queens. Are you seriously taking relationship advice from a fourteen-year-old, Cap?”</p>
<p>“He said he’s sixteen.”</p>
<p>“He’s barely out of diapers is what he is. His frontal lobes aren’t even fully developed yet. He eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of a paper bag. His aunt makes his dental appointments for him.”</p>
<p>“Yet you let him run around and stop armed robberies,” Steve says flatly. “Is that suit you made him bulletproof?”</p>
<p>“Not that particular one, no,” Tony grates out. “And I don’t <i>let</i> him do anything. He was swinging around sticking his nose into trouble long before I got my hands on him. He was gonna get himself killed if someone didn’t step in.”</p>
<p>“And you thought you were the right guy to do it?”</p>
<p>There’s a beat of silence, and Steve regrets the words. </p>
<p>“I mean, who the fuck else was gonna?” Tony says finally. “I once would’ve said <i>you’d</i> be the perfect man for the job, but that was before you decided to go on the lam and take the whole team down with you. So what was I supposed to do, huh? You think I’m the only one with eyes on an enhanced teenager who can throw a bus like I can throw a frisbee? Maybe you’d prefer something like Hydra snatch him up and put him through a blender the way they did your ol’ pal Bucky. Turn him into another zombie murder machine.”</p>
<p>Steve bites the inside of his cheek. He’s remembering, now, how good they are at hurting each other. He presses a fist against his mouth and breathes the pain and anger out against his knuckles.</p>
<p>“Tony,” he starts again, trying for patience and understanding.</p>
<p>“What is this, anyway?” Tony interrupts. He’s breathing hard into the receiver, agitated. “This—this fucked up game you and Nat are playing, huh? Taking his fucking picture, following him around, playing nice—I expect Natasha to pull shit like that, but <i>you?</i> You wanna act so self-righteous, but you...what the fuck do you want, huh?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want anything.”</p>
<p>“You don’t want anything—bullshit. Bull. Shit,” Tony spits out. “Everyone wants something. He’s a kid. You don’t get to use him like that.”</p>
<p>Steve lets out an impatient noise.“Tony, <i>you</i> brought him to Germany—“</p>
<p>Tony cuts him off. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you <i>dare.</i>”</p>
<p>“Tony,” Steve attempts again, but the call ends before he can continue.</p>
<p>He lets out a long sigh, his shoulders collapsing forward. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling an ache in the back of his neck from pent-up tension. </p>
<p>He sighs again, and then straightens up, holding his phone up and searching through his contacts for Natasha’s number.</p>
<p>He’s never been good at quitting when the odds are stacked against him, and now he figures he has nothing else to lose either way.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Did I add a chapter? Of course.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know, getting too close to the leverage defeats its purpose,” Natasha says dryly as she hands a little slip of paper with an address handwritten on it over to Steve.</p>
<p>“I was already too close,” he replies, taking a glance at the paper and memorizing the address before shredding it. “It’s Tony, you know?” He drops the pieces in the kitchen waste bin, watching them tumble and twist as they fall. “I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”</p>
<p>“Then I suggest you tread very carefully where you’re going,” Natasha warns.</p>
<p>“I thought you were the one who suggested I take up a hobby,” Steve reminds her with a little smile. </p>
<p>Natasha doesn’t smile back.</p>
<p>“I also said it depended on your motivations,” she replies seriously. “If you think this is…some kind of olive branch or something, some way to build bridges…you may want to rethink your approach. Try something less…<i>threatening.</i>”</p>
<p>“Threatening?” Steve repeats dryly, bending to tie his worn shoelaces. “Does this seem threatening to you?”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Natasha says. “It matters what <i>Tony</i> thinks. Everything is balanced on a knife’s edge right now, Steve, and—“</p>
<p>“And getting the team back together is the most important thing,” Steve cuts her off, standing. </p>
<p>Natasha looks at him for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line, and then she sighs, shrugging. “Well. Good luck, then.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Steve takes the train back into Queens and walks from the station to a nondescript apartment building. He heads inside and takes the elevator up to the seventh floor, then passes down a hallway until he finds the apartment number he’s seeking. He knocks.</p>
<p>A few moments pass, and then a petite woman wearing oversized glasses answers the door. She squints up at Steve and purses her lips unhappily.</p>
<p>“Oh, god,” she sighs. “Another one. Who’s gonna show up here next, huh? It better be Thor or I’m not answering.”</p>
<p>Steve clears his throat, offering her his hand. “Mrs. Parker? I’m—“</p>
<p>She waves him off and opens the door wider, motioning him through. “I’ve been watching the news. I know who you are. Get inside quick before my neighbors see you. The beard and civvies aren’t fooling anyone.”</p>
<p>Steve steps inside and follows her into the living room. She gestures to the couch.</p>
<p>“Have a seat,” May says. “Coffee? Water?”</p>
<p>“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m fine,” Steve says, sitting down on the couch and clasping his hands between his knees.</p>
<p>May sits down in the armchair next to the couch. “I’m assuming you’re here because of Peter.”</p>
<p>Steve clears his throat. “Yes, I was wondering—“</p>
<p>“The last time one of you Avengers showed up here,” May interrupts, scrutinizing him over the rims of her glasses, “I was lied to, and my kid—my fourteen-year-old <i>child</i>—was taken overseas and made to apprehend dangerous fugitives. One of which,” she adds with another pointed look at Steve, “busted up his face so good he was black and blue for days. I suppose I should be glad a shiner was the worst he got.”</p>
<p>Steve grimaces, offering her an apologetic smile. “Ma’am, that was very unfortunate incident, and I’m sorry on behalf of everyone involved, but—“</p>
<p>May waves a hand, rolling her eyes. “But Peter has special skills and he’d benefit from training and access to tech, blah blah blah...yeah, pal, I’ve heard this spiel before.”</p>
<p>Steve shifts on the sofa, setting his hands on his knees. “I was going to say, I think he’d appreciate someone to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like to go from being a normal kid to...well, about as far from normal as you can get. Someone like me.”</p>
<p>May says nothing to that at first. She sits back, crossing her arms over her chest and looking coolly over Steve for a long moment.</p>
<p>“Ask Tony,” she finally tells him. </p>
<p>Steve hesitates, his hands tightening into fists. “That might be...a bit difficult. I thought if I got your permission first and then talked to him—”</p>
<p>“You ask Tony,” May cuts in. “I don’t know you from Adam, but I do know Tony, and when it comes to Peter—Tony isn’t perfect, but I like to think he’s at least learned his lesson. I trust him. If he says it’s alright, then I say it’s alright.”</p>
<p>Steve takes a deep breath, making himself unclench his fists. He nods. “Alright, Mrs. Parker. I’ll do that.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tony doesn’t answer the first three times Steve calls, but Steve persists, and on his fourth try Tony finally picks up. It’s late in the morning and Tony is actually sober this time, which Steve takes as a small gift.</p>
<p>“I wanted to ask if it would be alright if I spend some time with Peter,” he tells Tony after they’ve made their way through some stilted small talk. “Take him out or something every now and then.”</p>
<p>There’s a long pause on the other end of the call. </p>
<p>“You want to hang out with snot-nosed teenager? What, are you <i>that</i> bored, Cap?” Tony finally says, his voice dripping with a flippant kind of sarcasm. “There’s a senior center around the corner from your apartment building. I’m sure there are some fine folks there who would love to join you around the record player to listen to some Glenn Miller hits. More your speed.”</p>
<p>“Tony,” Steve says, trying to keep the annoyance out of his own voice, “if he’s going to be a part of the team, I think I should get to know him better.”</p>
<p>“He’s not on the team. I offered him a spot and he turned me down. Wanted to stay close to the ground and look out for the little guy. Turns out he’s an idealistic little shit just like you, god help me.”</p>
<p>“But he may join the team someday,” Steve presses. “That’s why you’re so invested in him, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“I’m invested in keeping him alive and unharmed so that his very scary, very hot aunt doesn’t castrate me on my wedding night,” Tony says. “You know, his <i>legal guardian</i>, the one you should be seeking permission from instead of bothering me.”</p>
<p>“I already spoke with Mrs. Parker. She told me to talk to you. She said that if you said it was alright, then it would be fine with her. She said she trusts you with this.”</p>
<p>There’s another, even longer pause. Steve waits as the silence stretches on, finally releasing a pent up breath.</p>
<p>“Tony, if you don’t—“</p>
<p>“He’s a kid,” Tony cuts in suddenly, sounding almost like he’s pleading. “Don’t push him, don’t—don’t get him anymore involved in our bullshit than he already is. Just—treat him like a kid, not a potential recruit. I didn’t get it at first, or I would never have...”  </p>
<p>He breaks off for a moment again, and when he speaks his voice is firmer. “It’s very, very important to me, Steve, that you don’t forget that he’s just a kid. He’s smart as hell and understands way more than he lets on, so just be careful with him.”</p>
<p>“Alright, Tony,” Steve promises, feeling disarmed by the rawness of Tony’s request. He can’t decide if something has changed in Tony in the last year, or if Steve just never really knew him as well as he thought he had.</p>
<p>“Great, much appreciated,” Tony sniffs disdainfully, and then there’s the Tony Steve knew so well. “Have him home by ten. I wasn’t exaggerating about how scary his aunt is. She’ll snap you clean in half. And Christ, if you’re gonna spend time with him, maybe show him how to throw a proper punch. It’s getting a little embarrassing.”</p>
<p>Steve manages a smile at that.</p>
<p>“I’ll see what I can do,” he promises.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The following afternoon, Steve guides his motorcycle up to the curb in front of the entrance to Midtown School of Science and Technology, the engine of the bike rumbling as he comes to a stop. </p>
<p>There are a few groups of students already milling about on the steps out front, but they take no notice of Steve as he removes his helmet and sets it on the bike’s handlebars, cloaked as he is in the anonymity of jeans and plaid flannel shirt.</p>
<p>He waits there a few minutes until the school’s main doors swing open and the kid finally comes out through them, chattering away with a heavy-set boy and a tall, lanky girl, backpack bouncing as he trots down the steps. Peter glances up and catches sight of Steve perched on the bike and does a little stutter step. His two friends notice Steve a second later, and Steve can tell by their expressions that they recognize him despite his civilian dress. The three of them come to a stop at the bottom of the steps and bunch up closer together, silently gawping at Steve.</p>
<p>“Hey, Queens,” Steve says, before the awkward silence can stretch on too long. “Want a ride home?”</p>
<p>The kid looks over his shoulder, like he thinks Steve is making the offer to someone standing behind him, then exchanges looks with the other boy. The tall girl leans over and whispers something to Peter, then straightens up and stares cooly at Steve, her eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure,” Peter says finally, with a kind of artificial airiness, as if getting picked up from school by ex-fugitive former-Avengers was a normal occurrence. He hops down the rest of the steps and walks over to the bike. He stops next to it, a look of trepidation passing over his face. “You know how to drive this thing, right?”</p>
<p>“Of course I do,” Steve says, taking his helmet off the handlebars and putting it on the kid’s head, thumping it down with the edge of his fist hard enough to make Peter stagger a bit. “What, you scared?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, a little,” Peter replies honestly, his voice muffled inside the helmet.</p>
<p>Steve smiles, thumping the top of the helmet again. “You can trust me, kid. Hop on and hold tight.”</p>
<p>The kid does, offering a little wave to his friends as Steve revs the engine and sets off, picking up speed as they turn out of the school’s parking lot, weaving through traffic.</p>
<p>“Oh, god, I’m gonna die,” the kid says, clinging to Steve’s jacket.</p>
<p>Steve grins, taking a sharp corner and zipping past a slow-moving garbage truck, enjoying the  cold bite of the wind against his face.</p>
<p>“You were bragging to me about jumping off skyscrapers,” Steve calls back to Peter over the noise of traffic and the bike’s growling motor. “I thought you’d enjoy this.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, no offense but you drive like a maniac,” Peter replies, holding on for dear life as Steve takes another sharp right turn.</p>
<p>Steve grins again, weaving past more cars as they rumble along a few more blocks. He finally slows and turns down a side street, coming to a stop in front of a quiet little pizzeria.</p>
<p>“Is it over? Am I still alive?” the kid asks, slowly straightening up and relinquishing his death grip on Steve’s jacket.</p>
<p>“You survived. Congratulations. You wanna grab a bite to eat?” Steve asks as he puts the bike’s kickstand down and shuts off its engine.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Peter says cheerfully, hopping off the bike and pulling the helmet off. He smooths his hair down, looking relieved to be on his own two feet again. “I probably need to call my aunt though and tell her I’m here with you. She’s real strict about that stuff.”</p>
<p>“She knows,” Steve says, taking the helmet from him and offering a reassuring smile. “I already talked to her.”</p>
<p>Peter’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline, his expression turning wary. “You talked to my aunt? Am I in trouble? ‘Cause listen, whatever I did, I can explain—“</p>
<p>Steve snorts, getting off the bike. “You’re not in trouble, kid. I thought you could help me with something.”</p>
<p>The kid’s face lights up. “What, like a mission?”</p>
<p>“Not exactly.” Steve jerks his head towards the pizzeria. “C’mon—let’s order a couple of pies and I’ll brief you.”</p>
<p>A little later, tucked away in a sticky booth in the corner with a couple of pizzas spread over the table, Steve hands a folded piece of paper over to Peter.</p>
<p>The kid unfolds it, frowning down at it for a moment before looking up at Steve, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “This is a list of movies…”</p>
<p>Steve nods.</p>
<p>“I’m catching up,” he explains. “I’ve made a dent, but, well...I’ve fallen behind this past year. I saw you had a pretty impressive DVD collection when I stopped at your apartment to chat with your aunt.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, they were my uncle’s,” the kid says around a mouthful of pizza, examining the list again. “He was a big film buff.”</p>
<p>“I heard you are, too. What do you say to helping me make it through that list, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?” Steve asks with a smile.</p>
<p>Peter snorts, nodding. “Yeah, sure—I can do that. But I’m gonna add a bunch of stuff to this list, ‘cause you’re missing some real gems here. I mean, Dirty Dancing is alright, but you ever seen Santo in the Treasure of Dracula?”</p>
<p>“Can't say I have.”</p>
<p>“Oh, man, it’s <i>terrible</i>, but like, that’s what makes it so great, you know?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Steve says with another smile. He points to the last slice of pizza. “You gonna eat that?”</p>
<p>“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” the kid offers, planting his elbow on the sticky tabletop and holding his arm bent up, wiggling his fingers. “Come on, Cap.”</p>
<p>Another slow smile curls Steve’s mouth. “You seem pretty confident, for a little punk.”</p>
<p>“And you seem like a guy who doesn’t run from a fight, even though you know I’m gonna wreck your shit,” the kid retorts.</p>
<p>It sounds so much like something Bucky, the real Bucky, would say to him that Steve can’t help the way his smile grows wider. “You’re gonna shit talk me now? Did you forget I kicked your ass in Germany?”</p>
<p>“Not shit talk if it’s true,” Peter says, grinning back. “I’ve been working out since the last time we duked it out. Lifting cars, gettin’ swole.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Steve says, leaning forward and planting his elbow on the table. He grabs the kid’s hand. “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>He holds back a little at first, just to test the waters, and then immediately regrets it as Peter starts inching his hand back towards the table. Steve tightens his grip, his jaw clenched. He can feel the strain in his arm and shoulder, but the kid looks like he’s barely breaking a sweat, a wide, triumphant grin splitting his face as he forces Steve’s knuckles down to tap the table.</p>
<p>“How long have you been like this?” Steve asks, shaking out his hand.</p>
<p>“Since I was fourteen,” Peter replies, reaching for the slice of pizza.</p>
<p>“How’d it happen?”</p>
<p>“I got bit by a spider on a field trip.”</p>
<p>Steve snorts. “Very funny.”</p>
<p>“No, seriously—that’s what happened,” Peter insists. “I got bit by this spider, and that night I got really sick, like the worst flu of my life or something, and when I woke up in the morning I could stick to walls and lift a bus. The day before, I couldn’t even run a lap in gym class without having to use my inhaler, or do a single pull-up. Crazy.”</p>
<p>“Crazy,” Steve agrees, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did you break a lot of things at first?”</p>
<p>“Oh my god, yes,” the kid says, laughing again. “It was awful. And kinda scary.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Doorknobs was what got me,” Steve tells him. He mimes turning a handle on a door. “Those first few weeks…every time I went to open a door, I’d just crush the knob like an egg. Had cold sweats thinking about shaking people’s hands.”</p>
<p>“Oh man, me too,” Peter groans. “I still get nervous about it.”</p>
<p>He goes quiet a moment, setting the pizza back down on his plate.</p>
<p>“When I was a little kid, I used to dream about how great it would be to be a superhero,” he finally continues. “I mean, I’d see you Avengers on the news all the time...but no one tells you about the weird crap like that.”</p>
<p>“No, they don’t,” Steve agrees. “But it sounds like you’re doing good, kid.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.” Peter gives him a little closed lipped smile, before clearing his throat. “So, uh...when do you wanna hit that list?”</p>
<p>Steve straightens up. “Good question. What do ya say we start next Tuesday?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the last time I add a chapter I swear.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve meets up with Peter again the following Tuesday, and then again the next week. </p>
<p>Steve had liked what he had seen of Spider-Man in Germany, even if he had been on the wrong side of the kid’s fists—liked his confidence and scrappy can-do-ness and the enormous raw talent he saw there. He likes Peter Parker, too, who seems every bit as plucky as his alter-ego. Everything about him is…<i>young</i>. Young and fresh and open. Steve has been in the company of other damaged, hardened men and women for so long that spending time with the kid is like taking a long cool drink after being in the desert for forty years. He feels like he can let his guard down a little. With the kid, there are no secrets, no ulterior motives, no deep-seated suspicion.</p>
<p>After their first few meetings, they quickly settle into a rhythm. Peter will come by Steve’s cramped apartment on nights when his aunt works late and they’ll eat dinner together, sitting side-by-side on the sofa with their plates balanced on their knees. Steve will make scrambled eggs or sometimes Peter will swing in through the window Steve leaves open for him with a plastic bag full of burritos or sandwiches looped over his arm, and they’ll watch the next movie on Steve’s list while they chow down. Steve looks forward to it; there is something comfortable and domestic in it that he hasn’t enjoyed in far too long. He likes the way the kid can fill up the little apartment with noise and chatter and chase away the doubts and shadows for a while. </p>
<p>“No pink parka?” Steve observes with raised eyebrows the next time Peter comes around.</p>
<p>“No pink parka,” the kid says as he crawls through the window, sounding a little dejected.</p>
<p>Steve smiles as he fills a couple of glasses with water from the tap. “You and Tony made up, then.”</p>
<p>“Sort of,” Peter replies, yanking off his mask before handing over a bag full of pierogis to Steve. “My aunt caught wind of what was going on and she went totally ballistic. She thinks it was like, borderline child abuse making me go out like that when Mr. Stark could just fix the suit’s heater. She drove all the way up to Avengers HQ to confront him about it. There was a lot of outrage and yelling on both sides. Miss Potts was called in to negotiate between the parties, an armistice was signed, and the pink parka was honorably discharged.” </p>
<p>The kid drops his backpack at his feet and flops down onto the sofa, giving a lazy salute. “I honestly kinda miss it. People keep asking about it. It was almost part of my brand at this point, you know? Someone made a whole Instagram account devoted to it. I feel like I’m letting down my fans.”</p>
<p>Steve snorts with amusement into his glass as he takes a drink of water.</p>
<p>“It’s all good, though,” Peter continues, leaning forward to dig around in his backpack. He produces a small speaker from inside it, holding it up like a trophy. “Check out what I found today—a Kliptsh tabletop stereo. Someone tossed it in a dumpster, can you believe that? These things cost a fortune, and it just needed some wires replaced and now it works fine. Man, rich people are <i>wild</i>. But it’s yours now, Cap. This thing’ll blow the door off your apartment.”</p>
<p>Steve smiles as he trades a plate of pierogies for the stereo. “Thanks, kid. That’s real thoughtful of you.”</p>
<p>It’s not the first time Peter’s shown up with something he’s scavenged from a dumpster. Steve’s apartment has gained quite a collection of rescued and refurbished electronics in the time since the kid started coming around. He fixes other things around the place, too—the rattle in the window AC unit, the busted heating element in the ancient oven, the faulty volume knob on the radio. Steve considers himself a handy person, but the kid is something else. Broken things come together under his hands like magic, old things become new again, better, faster, more efficient. He reminds Steve of Tony in this regard, and it stings a little—the pain that comes with knowing you’ve hurt someone you care about, even if you didn’t want to hurt them. </p>
<p>If Peter feels any animosity about what happened in Germany or thereafter, he doesn’t show it. Steve still wonders how much Tony has told him, but he doesn’t probe to find out. The whole thing feels fragile, like handling glass. Even if Tony isn’t there, he’s still <i>there,</i> like a looming spectral presence.</p>
<p>Sometimes Steve lies awake on his bed in the cool darkness and thinks about Siberia. He tries to picture other ways it could have played out, because despite the effects of the serum, he’s still human and he has doubts like anyone else. In another time, everything had felt simple—black and white, good and evil. Pick a side and stick to your guns. It was a child’s way of thinking. Then you grow up and realize you’ll spend the rest of your life second-guessing your choices, trying to hunt down the ghosts of your past so you can look them right in the face and ask, <i>was it worth it? Were <b>you</b> worth it?</i></p>
<p>But his mind always returns to the same place. <i>Bucky is safe.</i> He chants it silently, like a mantra. <i>Bucky is safe. Bucky is safe. Bucky is safe.</i> Steve owes him that much, after everything Bucky has done for him. </p>
<p>He thinks of a place thousands of miles away from the crowded, noisy streets of Brooklyn, a place of lush low grasslands and unimaginable cityscapes where the warm sun spills red and pink and citrus orange over the crisp white mountain peaks.</p>
<p>The yearning for this place is a constant ache, like the deepest pangs of some insatiable hunger. He lies awake in his cramped, damp apartment, listening to the traffic outside and smelling the acrid odor of exhaust wafting through the window and the earthy rank scent of mildew behind the walls, and tries to imagine himself there.</p>
<p>White mountains. Citrus sunsets. <i>Bucky is safe, he’s safe, we’re safe, we’ll go home someday…</i></p>
<p>A lie he tells himself.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“You need to move your feet more. Your speed and agility are your best assets,” Steve says, allowing Peter a moment to catch his breath. </p>
<p>The kid has come over to his apartment one too many times with a busted lip or a black eye, and Steve has finally decided to take up Tony’s suggestion about teaching the kid some fighting skills.</p>
<p>“You’re strong, stronger than me,” Steve tells him, “but I know a least a few fellas who could smash you like a—”</p>
<p>“Don’t say bug,” the kid pants out, clutching at a stitch in his side. “Spiders aren’t bugs.”</p>
<p>“Like a spider, then,” Steve amends. “Point is, there’s always gonna be someone out there stronger than you. Don’t let them hit you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, is that all?” Peter flashes him a thumbs up. “‘Don’t let them hit you.’ Great advice, Cap. Genius-level thinking.”</p>
<p>Steve smiles. He smiles a lot around the kid. “Probably shouldn’t talk so much, either. Keep your focus.”</p>
<p>“That’s part of my whole fighting style,” the kid says as he flips over Steve’s head to avoid the fist coming his way. “Annoy ‘em till they give up.”</p>
<p>He grabs Steve’s wrist on his landing and yanks hard. Steve doesn’t even try to resist it, moving instead into the motion and sweeping a leg low, but the kid has taken Steve’s advice to heart and he vaults away again in the blink of an eye. Then his heel is smashing into Steve’s shoulder.</p>
<p>The kid hits like a freight train even when he’s holding back. Steve feels the impact run down his arm and across his chest, a bolt of lightning that sears then numbs him all the way to his fingertips and momentarily steals his breath away.</p>
<p><i>God,</i> he thinks, <i>God, he’s only sixteen and he’s already this strong, this fast, this smart. He’s sloppy now but he’s going to get better, he can be <b>so much better.</b></i></p>
<p>He feels it already, that urge to push the kid just a little harder, find his limits, and then push him harder still. He remembers Tony’s plea and he thinks maybe now he understands the implicit fear in Tony’s request. He and Tony both know what’s out there—knives in every hand, danger around every corner, always a looming threat. But that’s also where they differ—Tony would wrap this kid up in multi-million-dollar combat suits and cocoon him in tech to maintain a buffer between him and all the hard-knocks, would hold him back and work feverishly with the hope of making the world around him safe and sound before letting him loose into it. Steve knows that’s a futile wish. </p>
<p>There is no such thing as safety, only the fleeting quiet that lies between this fight and the next.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tony calls Steve, this time.</p>
<p>It’s late—or early, depending on how one looks at it. An electronic billboard on the route Steve takes on his nightly runs tracks the time in blocky white-on-black numbers—nearing two-thirty AM when Steve’s phone buzzes in his pocket.</p>
<p>He sits on the curb to answer it, slightly out of breath.</p>
<p>“What the hell do you think you’re doing, huh?” Tony asks as soon as Steve accepts the call, his speech sounding slurred once more.</p>
<p>“Going for a run,” Steve replies. “You’ve been drinking again.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I had this charity thing tonight,” Tony says. “Good PR or whatever. Supposed to help resuscitate the Avengers’ image with the general public. Seems like it’s always gasping on its last breath. I had a few glasses of champagne while I mingled and schmoozed.”</p>
<p>“And a few more when you got home, sounds like.”</p>
<p>“So some of us know how to have a good time. Yeesh,” Tony says impatiently. “But you—hey, what are you doing, punching my little protégé? He came around here this afternoon with his face all fucked up, with this beautiful shiner, and he tells me you gave it to him. Are you hitting that kid?”</p>
<p>“You told me to teach him how to throw a punch,” Steve says. “He needs to learn how to dodge them, too.”</p>
<p>“Take it easy on him, Rocky. You don’t have to hit him so fucking hard, alright? Don’t leave bruises, for christsake. He has to go to school like that. People are gonna start asking questions. Do you know what his aunt will do to me if CPS shows up at her place? I’ll give you a hint—it would involve rusty kitchen scissors and my testicles. So lay off.”</p>
<p>“Better he gets a little roughed up by me than someone else. I wouldn’t be helping him by pulling my punches. He’s got to learn if he’s going to do this.”</p>
<p>“Jesus, listen to you—beating up that little kid like you’re doing him a favor, like you’re…well. What do think of him? He’s smart, right? <i>God,</i> he’s smart,” Tony sloppily rambles. “That’s the scariest part, you know, because he’s smart as hell but so fucking dumb. He can do college-level physics equations in his head as easy as breathing but he has <i>no</i> common sense. Not a drop. People are gonna—he’s gonna get taken advantage of. He’s too trusting and people are gonna...Christ. You think you know how scary and fucked up the world is, but you don’t have a fucking clue, you don’t know until...it’s like having blinders taken off, like all of a sudden it’s all murderers and rapists and ebola epidemics and climate change everywhere you look, just everything gone to hell in a hand basket…but…what was I saying? I was asking you what you think.”</p>
<p>Steve takes a slow breath. “I think he’s got a lot of potential. He still needs training, obviously, but he’ll be a good asset to the team.”</p>
<p>“<i>Fuck you,</i>” Tony replies, spitting the words out. “I told you not to do that. Think of him like that. An <i>asset.</i> Jesus fuck. He’s sixteen. He’s a <i>kid.</i>”</p>
<p>Steve makes himself relax his jaw. “You don’t think, maybe, that that’s the tiniest bit hypocritical, Tony?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Tony says. “Okay. Okay, Germany—that was a mistake. I can admit that. I fucked up, big time. But <i>you</i>—I warned you.”</p>
<p>“Tony,” Steve says, exhausted. “I’m trying, I promise, but I don’t know what you want from me.”</p>
<p>“I want it to <i>scare</i> you,” Tony answers viciously. “The thought of something bad happening to him—I want it to keep you up at night.”</p>
<p>Steve has plenty of things that keep him up at night already, alone in his dark bedroom with a swirling cloud of doubts and regrets and anxieties all hovering menacingly above him.</p>
<p><i>White mountains. Citrus sunsets.</i> A real place that may as well be a fantasy for how unattainable and idealized it is, like the lost Brooklyn of his youth. </p>
<p>
  <i>I had a home here, once…</i>
</p>
<p>When he does sleep, it’s always the same dream: snow and cold that cuts to the bone, a sense of total desperation, everything hinging on this moment, the knowledge that he must stop this now—make the necessary sacrifice in order to halt an even greater tragedy. The feel of breaking his knuckles against frigid, hard metal over and over and over again until his whole damn world cracks apart, the fractures running so deep and wide he thinks it might be impossible to ever put it back together right again.</p>
<p>
  <i>Where do you go if you can’t go home?</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve wakes from one of these dreams on a Saturday night to full alertness. He thinks maybe that’s another effect of the serum—skipping over that groggy, liminal place between sleep and waking that other people seem to go through—but maybe he’s always been able to do that.</p>
<p>It’s a soft tapping at the bedroom window that rouses him. He’s on his feet in an instant, switching on the lamp. The digital clock at his bedside table reads 1:17 A.M. in glowing red numbers. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” Peter says breathlessly as Steve pulls him through the window. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to wake you up, but my aunt will freak out if I come home like this.”</p>
<p><i>Like this</i> is bleeding from a stab wound in his side, just under his last rib. Steve steers him towards the bed and makes him lie down, then gets a towel from the bathroom. He kneels down next to the kid and presses it to the gushing puncture.</p>
<p>“Can I just…like, lay in your bathtub for a while until this heals up a bit?” Peter asks, yanking his mask off. His face is ghostly pale and his eyes are red-rimmed and his mouth is tight with pain. Steve can feel the stilted rise and fall of the kid’s rib cage under his hands and the shivering that’s seizing up his body, and Steve remembers with a sudden, nauseating clarity that this is a child he’s holding together. </p>
<p>Steve frowns at him. “The bathtub?”</p>
<p>Peter gestures downward at himself. “So I don’t get blood all over your stuff.”</p>
<p>“Oh, kid,” Steve says with a kind of exasperated fondness, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, alright?”</p>
<p>“I don’t mind,” Peter says, plucking anxiously at the towel. “I feel bad—look, it’s all over your sheets now.”</p>
<p>“Really, Pete, I don’t care. Just lie still and let me take care of it.”</p>
<p>Peter relents, or maybe the pain and blood loss make it too difficult for him to argue. He lies back in the bed, gulping at the air. He makes a little grunting sound with each exhale and that worries Steve, like maybe the kid is bleeding into his chest. But his eyes are bright and focused and his pulse is strong and steady under Steve’s fingertips, and Steve has seen enough boys die in muddy trenches and churned up fields to know what it looks like when life is draining out of someone, and this isn’t it.</p>
<p>“I really screwed up. Mr. Stark is gonna be so pissed,” Peter murmurs after a few minutes. He looks drowsy now but the wound is already starting to heal, the bleeding going from a gush to a trickle. “I told Karen not to tell him what happened but he’ll find out when I take the suit to be fixed. Then I’ll be in deep shit. Especially when he finds out I came here instead of calling him.” He looks up at Steve through bleary eyes and adds, “Sorry.”</p>
<p>Steve grimaces. “It’s alright, kid. I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle like this.” He rises and gets a fresh towel from the bathroom. </p>
<p>“Who’s Karen?” he asks when he returns.</p>
<p>“The A.I. in my suit. She’s so nice, but god, she is such a snitch. Oh, ow,” Peter says, sucking in a sharp breath as Steve presses the new towel against his side, his knees jerking up involuntarily. For a few moments he does nothing but breathe, deep hard breaths through his nose. </p>
<p>Then he says, “You’re better at this than Mr. Stark. He always freaks out. He says he’s not, and he pretends to be all calm and stuff, but I can hear his heart beating crazy fast. And he says I’m making all his hair go grey.”</p>
<p>Steve smiles a little at that. “I’m a soldier. We’re trained not to panic at stuff like this. Tony is…Tony.” He pauses, looks over the kid’s pale face. </p>
<p>“He cares about you, you know?” Steve says, almost to himself. He shouldn’t feel so surprised by it; he knows Tony, knows that for all his arrogance and cutting quips and cool detachment, Tony is someone who cares deeply for the handful of people he lets get close to him. Steve had been one of those people, once, before…</p>
<p>“He’s gonna <i>murder</i> me,” Peter laments. “Unless my aunt kills me first. This is probably the last time you’ll see me alive. It was really nice knowing you, Cap. Sorry again about Germany. You can eat that sandwich I left in your fridge and have all my Star Wars DVDs.”</p>
<p>Steve smiles. “What about that shark movie you were talking about? Jaws. We haven’t gotten to that one yet. Can I have that one, too?”</p>
<p>The kid looks mildly affronted. “Wow, Cap, my body ain’t even cold yet.” </p>
<p>A muffled buzzing starts and Peter paws at his hip, sliding his phone out of the hidden pocket there. He squints at the cracked screen and then his already ashen face blanches further. “Oh, my god, it’s Mr. Stark. Karen, you traitor!”</p>
<p>He fumbles to answer it. “Heeey, Mr. Stark!” he greets with artificial cheer, the brightness of his voice in stark contrast to his pitiful physical condition. </p>
<p>Steve can hear Tony speaking on the other end of the line, but he can’t make out the words. It can’t be anything pleasant, though, because the kid is grimacing.</p>
<p>“Mr. Stark—it’s not—please, would you just—no, you absolutely don’t need to come, I’m seriously so good right now….No, I just didn’t want to bother you because everything’s under control…um, somewhere safe…” </p>
<p>Peter winces as he listens, his eyes flicking to Steve. “Uh, maybe...I mean, yes, sir, I am….yeah…yeah, okay—hold on.”</p>
<p>Peter sighs and holds the phone out, his eyes apologetic. “He wants to talk to you.”</p>
<p>Steve’s jaw tightens but he takes the phone in his free hand and brings it to his ear. “Tony.”</p>
<p>“Rogers,” comes the curt reply. “How bad is it? I can’t trust that little shit to tell me the truth.”</p>
<p>“He’s bleeding a little, but I don’t think it’s anything life threatening,” Steve answers, trying to keep his own tone neutral. “He can stay here tonight. I’ll keep an eye on him.”</p>
<p>“I’m already on my way,” Tony says, and then he ends the call before Steve can reply.</p>
<p>Steve hands the phone back to Peter, who is watching him warily, a question in his eyes.</p>
<p>“He’s coming to pick you up,” Steve says. He wonders if the kid can hear the way his own heart is thudding a little faster against his sternum.</p>
<p>“Oh, shit,” the kid says, his head falling back. He sighs heavily. “I should…go wait outside or something,” he adds, radiating misery.</p>
<p>“You stay right here,” Steve says firmly. He lifts the towel from Peter’s side and folds it before pressing it back again. “Just try to relax, alright? You’ll bleed less.”</p>
<p>The kid struggles to sit up instead, looking sweaty and a little grey around the mouth. “Sorry, I think I gotta puke.”</p>
<p>“Don’t get up. I’ll get you a bowl,” Steve orders, but Peter waves him off.</p>
<p>“I’m not gonna puke in a bowl, Jesus!” the kid mumbles, pushing past Steve and hobbling into the bathroom. He squats in front of the toilet, his head bowed.</p>
<p>“Shit. I <i>really</i> feel like I gotta puke, but I’m scared to do it,” he says shakily. “It’s gonna hurt so bad.”</p>
<p>Steve gives a grim little smirk. “Sorry, pal, I don’t think you have much of a choice.”</p>
<p>“Ugh,” Peter groans, his head practically inside the toilet bowl as he starts to retch.</p>
<p>“Oh man, fuck me that hurt,” he mumbles weakly when the gagging finally stops, sitting back on his heels and wiping at his mouth with the wad of toilet paper Steve hands him.</p>
<p>“Let me get you a glass of water,” Steve offers after helping the kid hobble back to the bed. </p>
<p>He leaves Peter in the bedroom and retreats to the kitchen, focusing intently on filling a glass with water and not on the anxious tension churning up his guts.</p>
<p>He comes back with the water and another clean towel that he presses against the knife wound, which has started to sluggishly bleed again. </p>
<p>“I can’t believe I barfed in front of Captain America,” Peter laments, scrubbing at his pale, fatigued face with his hands. “That’s gotta be the lamest thing I’ve ever done.”</p>
<p>Steve snorts softly. “Hey, it happens, kid. But let’s not try for a repeat too soon. When you’re all healed up, I’m gonna bring Natasha around to our next training session. She’ll show you a dozen and a half ways to disarm someone coming at you with a knife.”</p>
<p>“Black Widow?” Peter says, awed, his eyes going big and round. “Seriously?”</p>
<p>“Seriously.”</p>
<p>The kid settles back in the bed, his expression bright with anxious excitement. “Okay, but listen—don’t tell her I barfed, alright?”</p>
<p>Steve snorts again. “I’ll take it to the grave.”</p>
<p>Peter drowses for a time after that, while Steve sits on the edge of the bed, his back ramrod straight while he plays out imagined conversations with Tony in his mind, the same way he’d calculate strategies before a fight, running through various scenarios and forecasting potential risks in order to pinpoint the most successful approach. He draws an alarmingly nebulous result for something that feels so fragile and yet weighs so heavily on his soul.</p>
<p>Steve hears the footsteps coming up the stairs before Tony knocks. The kid hears it, too. He grabs Steve’s wrist, his eyes pleading.</p>
<p>“Don’t fight with him,” Peter begs. “Please. Whatever he says—Just take it easy on him, alright? Promise me you won’t fight.”</p>
<p>“I’m not gonna fight with him, kid. I’m done fighting,” Steve promises as he gets to his feet. He gestures to the towel. “Keep pressure on that.”</p>
<p><i>White mountains. Citrus sunsets. Bucky is safe. You owe him that,</i> he reminds himself as he goes to answer the door.</p>
<p>Standing in the hallway in a motor oil-stained t-shirt and jeans, a bundle of clothes tucked under one arm, Tony looks about the same as Steve remembers—maybe a little more grey in his goatee, his eyes a little more shrewd and wary, a little more tired. Steve can commiserate.</p>
<p>“Well, hello, Captain Canada,” Tony says pleasantly after a moment. “I’m looking for Captain America. Is he home?”</p>
<p>“Tony,” Steve says, grateful when his voice comes out steady. There’s a tightness in his throat that’s making it difficult for him to speak.</p>
<p>“You look like a lumberjack,” Tony says, appraising him. “You look like you’re doing maple syrup commercials. Is that how you’re paying the rent? I’ve seen your little PSAs. You’re not gonna win any Oscars anytime soon but you could probably skate by on your good looks.”</p>
<p>There’s something a little forced in Tony’s voice, but Steve feels his face crack into a little smile anyway. He rubs a hand over his thick, unruly beard. “I know, I know, I was gonna shave it off, but Pete says it helps me blend in with the hipsters here in the neighborhood. Whatever that means.”</p>
<p>“I would advise you not to take sartorial direction from a kid whose entire wardrobe consists of corny science pun shirts and old hoodies,” Tony says. He peers over Steve’s shoulder. “And speaking of said spider-kid—is his sorry ass still here?”</p>
<p>“He’s in the bedroom,” Steve says, stepping back to let Tony in.</p>
<p>“This is…cozy,” Tony says, standing in the living room and eyeing the apartment. “Actually, fuck it—you look like a giant in a hobbit hole. How are you living like this?”</p>
<p>“It’s what I can afford,” Steve says with a shrug.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I imagine your wallet is a little flatter now that you’re not getting those sweet Avengers’ paychecks I was cutting,” Tony says, something a little sharp entering his tone now.</p>
<p>Steve brushes it off, knowing that Peter can hear everything. “It’s a hell of a lot better than the places I’ve been staying in the past year,” he says mildly. </p>
<p>He steps past Tony before he can say anything else, leading him down the hall to the bedroom where Peter is waiting.</p>
<p>The kid looks up at them as the come into the small bedroom, an utterly woebegone expression on his face, his eyes big and tragic and glossy in the low light.</p>
<p>“Don’t even try it,” Tony says immediately, shaking a finger at the kid. “I’m onto your bullshit, pal. I’m immune to that face now. I am <i>stone cold</i> and will <i>not</i> be manipulated. That’s not gonna work this time, that’s…”</p>
<p>He falters, making an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, for crying out loud—what is going on here? Why are you looking so miserable?”</p>
<p>The kid sniffs wetly. “I puked in front of Captain America.”</p>
<p>“That’s it?” Tony scoffs. “Good <i>lord.</i> Everyday I thank god that I’m not fourteen and embarrassed by my own existence every second of my life.”</p>
<p>“I’m <i>sixteen,</i>” Peter says with wounded dignity.</p>
<p>“You’re grounded,” Tony shoots back. “Am I allowed to do that? I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s happening. I’m gonna ground you for making me say ‘you’re grounded,’ because now I feel old and I sound like my dad, and I hate that. You’re grounded. I’m gonna tell your aunt—“</p>
<p>“<i>Don’t</i> tell my aunt.”</p>
<p>“—and <i>she’ll</i> ground you,” Tony says, ignoring the kid’s pleas. “Maybe that will help you remember you’re not supposed to get close enough for anyone to stab you.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes I don’t have a choice,” the kid protests.</p>
<p>“You always have a choice,” Tony says firmly.</p>
<p>“You weren’t there,” Peter says stubbornly, trying and failing to sit up.</p>
<p>“Are you seriously trying to argue with me?” Tony asks. “‘Cause you’re looking about as intimidating as a drowned puppy right now.”</p>
<p>“Tony,” Steve murmurs, knowing it’s not his place to intrude, but the kid looks close to tears now.</p>
<p>Tony rounds on him, his eyes dark with anger, but he backs off a second later. </p>
<p>“Alright, hey, chin up, kid,” he says to Peter, contritely. “Let’s save the waterworks for the ride home. You’re making me look like a real asshole in front of Captain Righteous here.”</p>
<p>He tosses the bundle of clothes onto the bed. “Here. I stopped to grab you some clothes. I’d rather not get photographed with either an infamous masked vigilante or a naked bloody teenager in the backseat of my car. My publicists are insisting I try to keep a low profile and away from scandalous media attention while the negotiations are ongoing.”</p>
<p>Tony turns toward Steve. “Give us a minute alone, would you? The kid was embarrassed to puke in front you. If you get a peep of his underoos he’ll never recover.” </p>
<p>Steve nods. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says, patting the kid’s leg comfortingly.</p>
<p>He shuts the bedroom door as he steps out into the hallway and then crosses into the living room, but the door is flimsy and thin and the apartment is tiny, and Steve has enhanced hearing. He can’t quite make out what is being said but he can hear Tony speaking in a surprisingly gentle tone and the kid responding, sounding tired and maybe still a little on the verge of tears. Steve turns the water on at the sink and pretends to do dishes, finding the whole thing uncomfortable to listen to—something too tender and private and raw. </p>
<p>The bedroom door opens a short time later, and Tony walks out with the kid’s suit bundled up under one arm and the other thrown around Peter’s shoulders as he herds him towards the exit.</p>
<p>“Well. We’ll get out of your hair,” Tony says a little stiffly, jingling his car keys in his hand.</p>
<p>Steve clears his throat, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Alright.”</p>
<p>He follows them to the door, opening it for them and stepping out into the hall after them.</p>
<p>“Sorry about bleeding all over your sheets, Cap,” Peter says.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about, kid,” Steve says, reaching over to roughly ruffle his hair and not missing the way Tony’s hand tightens on the kid’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Alright, we’re off,” Tony says briskly, steering Peter down the hall towards the elevator.</p>
<p>“Tony,” Steve calls after him suddenly, and then he stops, uncertain of what he is going to say. </p>
<p>Tony pauses, his shoulders a stiff, straight line.</p>
<p>“Go downstairs and wait in the car for me,” he says to Peter, handing him the keys. The kid looks from him to Steve, his eyes wide and wary. </p>
<p>“Peter,” Tony prompts, and the kid almost jumps. He casts one last pleading look at Steve before limping down the hallway, hugging himself and looking more than a little bedraggled.</p>
<p>Tony waits until the kid has gotten onto the elevator at the end of the hall before turning to Steve. “Whatever you have to say, whatever entreaty or explanation or whatever the hell is gonna come out of your mouth—I don’t want to hear it. I’m not ready to hear it.”</p>
<p>“Tony," Steve says. “Tony, I just—”</p>
<p>“No, no,” Tony says fiercely. “You don’t get to—I did my part. I let Ross bend me over the table for a year so you all could come home. I let you—” his voice breaks a little, and he swallows hard. “I’m trusting you with something very important to me, Steve, because if something happens to me down the line I need to know that kid still has someone in his corner who will fight like hell for him. So I don’t feel like I owe you anything else, and you don’t owe me. We’re even. It’s done.”</p>
<p>Then he’s walking away, and Steve is left alone in the hallway with all his doubts and regrets and an ache for something he can never have, for a home he can never return to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! I live for comments. You can also find me on tumblr as <a href="https://groo-ock.tumblr.com">groo-ock</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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